Pete woke up slowly, relishing the comfort of the bed and the crisp cotton sheets. The room was bright enough to be very early, very late or a grim, rainy morning. The gentle pitter-patter on the window told him what he needed to know. It was only the start of the rain. Within a few moments he could hear it lashing hard, occasionally the wind whipping it against the window. It was one of those days he was glad to be indoors. But, as he woke fully, he began to change his mind. Trying to roll over to get up presented him with the first problem.

“What the hell?” he murmured as his hands and feet refused to cooperate.

Stretching his neck and sitting upright as much as he was able, he gasped as he saw the thick leather straps holding his wrists to the sides of the bed. He couldn’t see his feet, but it certainly felt as though a similar set of straps held them too.

“What the hell is going on here!” he yelled as he strained on the straps, exhausting himself before flopping back on the pillow.

Looking around the room, he realised instantly that he had no idea where he was. The white walls, bare of any decoration, were interrupted only by one small window, the glass of which was criss-crossed with mesh. The door held a similar window. Was he in rehab? Had he been committed? But why? He wasn’t out of control, he was fine. What the hell had happened to him? Turning his eyes back to the door, Pete felt he would soon get some answers as he heard the door being unlocked and a man in a long white coat entered.

“Patrick?” Pete gasped in surprise.

The man dressed in the doctor’s coat smiled sympathetically at him as he pulled a chair close to the bed.

“Peter,” he nodded, “didn’t we agree that it was better if you called me Doctor Stump?”
“Doctor?” Pete replied, bewildered. “Patrick, what the hell is going on? Where am I?”

Pete looked up as a second figure entered the room, also dressed in a white coat.

“Joe?”
“He’s having another episode,” Patrick sighed. “He’s forgotten where he is again.”

The second doctor entered the room and stood next to Patrick, looking down at the bed and its worried occupant with a deep frown.

Pete strained again on the straps as wearing white scrubs with a long sleeved pale blue shirt underneath, the orderly entered the room.

“Andy! Please tell me what’s going on!”

The orderly turned a worried frown towards Pete, lying on the bed, confused and increasingly irritable.

“How does he know my name?” Andy asked, his brow furrowed.
“Just get me fifty milligrams of Thorazine please, Andy,” Joe replied.
“Doctor Trohman,” Patrick shook his head as Andy left to prepare the injection. “I don’t want him sedated if we can help it. I believe that’s why he keeps forgetting.”
“If he grows increasingly agitated, he’ll only do more damage to himself,” Joe argued.
“I agree, but… I’d like to try without.”
“Go ahead, see if you can calm him.”

Patrick looked down at the confused and now angry young man lying strapped to the bed. Pete looked up, his expression demanding answers to his many questions. The conversation had told him that if he didn’t calm down, they were going to drug him, but it was just so hard to understand. Why were they calling each other doctor? Taking a deep breath, Pete asked the one question that summed up all his concerns.

“What the fuck is going on?”
“Peter, you’re in the Baas Portage Clinic, you were committed. Do you remember?”
“Rehab?”
Patrick lowered his eyes and sighed. “No, Peter, this is a psychiatric hospital, you’ve been having delusional episodes.”
“Look, Patrick, I don’t know what’s going on, but will you please just take these off me and…”
“He’s not calming down, Doctor Stump,” Joe interrupted as Andy returned with the syringe and a small bottle. “I say we give him a shot and you can talk to him when he’s calmer.”
“Doctor Trohman, your answer to everything is Thorazine! I want to cure the patient.”
“Patient?” Pete’s voice was starting to shake. “Look, I don’t know what this is, but if I’m asleep will someone please wake me!”
“Peter,” Patrick began, keeping his voice soft and reassuring. “You’ve been having psychotic episodes. You believe yourself to be a famous rock star…”
“But…!”
“It’s quite common,” Patrick continued quickly, “but what is less common is that you’ve been including us, your doctors, in your fantasy life. You believe we’re your bandmates. Is it coming back to you now?”
“It never went away! You are my bandmates! What the hell are you doing to me?”

Patrick frowned and shook his head as he looked up at Joe, still standing at his side.

Pete looked around the room again. It was a psychiatric hospital. The white walls, the bed, the restraints, doctors he thought he knew. Was he delusional? Was it all in his mind? Everything?

“Where’s my wife? Where’s Ashlee?”
Patrick sighed. “Once again, Pete, you’re single and you work in a music store in downtown Chicago.”
“No… no that’s not true. I’m married, I have a son. I’m in a band, we all are!”
“We’re your doctors, Pete. There is no band, just the music store.”
“Really?” he replied faintly.

Pete’s breathing grew shallow and rapid as he tried to take it all in; to somehow make sense of it all. In the corner of his eye, he saw another man enter the room and lean against the door. Standing casually, the tall dark man crossed one foot in front of the other and waited to be noticed. Turning his head Pete’s eyes widened at the sight of Gabe Saporta leaning against the door and grinning broadly at him.

“Gotcha!” he winked.

At the word, Patrick, Joe and Andy dissolved into fits of laughter.

“You bastard!” Pete strained on the restraints still holding him. “I’ll get you back for this!”

“Yes, boss,” Gabe grinned as William Beckett and Brendon Urie poked their heads around the door to join in the laughter. “See that?” Gabe asked pointing to a camera high on the ceiling. “All this will be on YouTube before we even untie you!”
“You fucker! I’m dropping your band from the label!”
“Come on, Pete,” Patrick chuckled. “The things you’ve done to everyone? You deserved it!”
“Don’t relax for a moment!” Pete yelled, pouting in return, unable to see their justified retribution. “Not one of you! Not one of you!”